Pulse
by Tonight.At.Noon
Summary: Simon meets Alisha the night before he begins community service. He saves her, and she manages to save him as well.
**A/N:** Just an idea that I decided to turn into a little story. Tell me if you liked it!

* * *

 **Pulse**

* * *

Simon had not entered a club since the incident, but as it was the last night before his community service began, he felt it was time to put the past behind him and suck it up. _Pulse_ was a good name for the establishment, he reasoned when he got past the velvet rope after showing the guy at the front his ID. Everything inside _pulsed_. The multicoloured lights, the drinks being sloshed back. The floor even seemed to pulse in time to the thumping base echoing out through the speakers.

He watched as he stood in the doorway, entranced by the amount of people dancing. They themselves vibrated, causing the whole building to shake even more. It was a fascinating sight. Boys wrapped their slimy arms around girls' waists, pulling their bodies together until they were cocooned in each other's skin. Sweat dripped from their foreheads and from their drinks. He imagined the floor to be doused in a layer of residue. Slippery.

"Oi, move it, short ass."

Simon was thrust forward. He turned his head to see a man much larger than him shaking his pierced head in anger, his dark skin melting into the walls around them.

Moving to the side, Simon uttered a quiet apology and stared at the man stomping his way into the crowd of grinding, sexually frustrated people. Deciding it was time for a small drink, Simon located the bar and made his way over. There was a large number of club-goers standing around the bar, but Simon—using his shorter height to his advantage—shoved his way to the wooden counter, soaked in beer and drool.

Once more, Simon stood motionless as he admired how smoothly the bartender dripped all sorts of liquids into different glasses. Some, he could tell, were dark in colour. Others matched the blinking lights in their pink and green and blue hues.

"You gonna order something?"

Startled, Simon found himself staring at a young woman dressed in all black, a bright white hand towel tossed over one shoulder. She wore an expectant look on her small face.

"Well?" she said, eyebrows raised.

"Right," Simon said. "A drink."

He paused. He only had ever taken small sips from beer cans stolen from his stepfather's miniature fridge. Of course, there was that night of the incident, but just the thought of those amber-coloured drinks, which had burned so badly as they traveled down his throat to his stomach, made him want to be sick.

"I'll start you off with something light, yeah?" the woman suggested. "Gin and tonic sound okay? More tonic than gin."

She was being so kind to him. He was holding up the line, and she was being kind to him.

"Yes," he said, tight-lipped, hoping she could hear him over the rumbling music.

The bartender smiled and nodded, grabbing a tumbler for him and mixing a bottle of glassy gin with some tonic water and lime juice. She placed the finished product in front of him.

"Eight quid," she said, taking the money he handed to her and turning to the next customer.

Simon reached for his drink, noticing his shaking hand. Swallowing hard, he held the glass tight and turned to face the dance floor, shouting at his limbs to stay calm.

He was fine. He was okay. He could do this.

His psychiatrist told him at their last session it was time to move on from the incident, and that was exactly what he planned on doing.

Simon stood by the bar for some time, taking the occasional sip from his fizzed drink. Instead of burning like the whisky had, the gin was pleasant and warm. Comforting, almost.

He did not know how long he had been staring at the girl. It could have been hours, or something as small as a few minutes. He only knew that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes upon. Her skin glowed blue and pink and green. The curls springing from her scalp were stuck to her cheeks. His arm no longer shook with nerves—it now shook with the desire to reach out and graze her neck. To tuck those strands of hair behind her pointed ears.

His feet ached to walk towards her, to throw away his anxieties and be the bold, adventurous man hidden inside the silly books his younger sister read. But he remained still, blood travelling in quick rivulets through his veins, watching as a man, taller and wider than he, approached her from behind.

Quickly, the scene changed. He was no longer observing a young woman dancing with her boyfriend, but rather a man, grown and clever enough to know what men should not do with girls, advance upon somebody who did not appreciate the attention. Simon watched her push the burly man back, surprised at her strength, and suddenly his aching feet were taking charge of his whole body, forcing him forward.

"Get off me, wanker!" she screeched, though in the club, with the music so pulsing and heavy, Simon barely heard a whisper.

Simon saw the man, whose shirt was coated with profane words, recoil, his arm flying up in defence. His hand came down across the girl's face. She crumpled to the floor. Other dancers moved automatically out of the way, oblivious to the attack.

"You bitch!" he cried, lifting his arm again.

Simon reached out and held tightly to the swinging limb, stopping the broken girl from receiving another blow. "Leave," he gritted out, squeezing. "I said, _leave_."

Eyes wide, the man jerked his arm away from Simon and charged off, shoving sweating bodies aside to clear his path.

Simon crouched down next to the girl and touched her hand. "Are you all right?" he shouted.

She looked up at him. He could see her makeup had run. Her eyes were lined in black.

Clutching her hand, Simon pulled her to her feet. She sagged, falling into his arms. Thankfully, he was quick enough to stop them both from falling to the ground.

"Come with me," he said, dragging her towards the door.

"I'm fine," she insisted when they neared the velvet ropes, stopping. But Simon could see the green lines dribbling from her nose.

"You're bleeding," he said, pulling a packet of tissues from his jacket pocket. He pulled one out. It turned from white to green to blue, as did the girl's blood. "Hold still," he said gently, pressing the tissue to her upper lip, watching the blood run from her nose to the tips of his fingers.

"Thanks," she said, holding the tissue in place.

Simon removed his hand. "Let's get you out of here," he said, loud enough for only her ears to hear.

"Where?"

Searching his brain for an answer, Simon decided to be the hero for one night. For one night, he would be the rescuer. Not the shy boy who stood in the background and let things happen around him. He would be at the centre of it all, saving damsels—though he doubted very much this girl was anything close to a damsel—in distress and stopping the bad guys.

"My place," he said firmly, guiding the girl outside. She followed this time, resting her warm head on his shoulder as he waved his hand for a taxi.

* * *

Simon handed the girl a glass of water and a wet flannel, switching on one more light in his darkened bedroom. He had not cleaned it thoroughly for months, but it was good enough. Only a few items of clothing and some books that had lost their place on his shelves littered the floor.

"You read then, yeah?" the girl said, her eyes wandering.

Simon looked at his five bookshelves overflowing with hardbacks and paperbacks and the like. "Yes."

"What's your favourite?"

"I don't really have a favourite."

She raised one delicate eyebrow at him. "There's got to be one you read more than others."

He shrugged, eyes dancing over the marks on her face. She had two distinct freckles, one decorating her cheek, the other on her upper lip. Her skin, he realised now they had escaped from the pulsing lights, was not green or blue or pink. Rather a soft bronze shade that reminded him of the milkiest chocolate. He wondered momentarily if, should he lave her in his tongue, she would taste as sweet.

Gathering his mind, Simon shook his head. "No. Not really."

The girl stood up, a dangerous look in her hazel eyes, and started walking around his room, scanning the shelves. She stopped, reaching the oldest case, and pulled a book. It was a paperback. Falling apart.

"This one," she said, holding it up to him.

 _Horrid Henry_. His first non-picture book. About a boy who caused mischief and his perfect little brother. He read it still, even at age 18. Whenever his anxieties grabbed ahold of his lungs and made it difficult to breathe.

But it was a children's book. For young boys.

"No," he said, voice faltering. He was a terrible liar.

The girl came up to him. Stood right in front of him, the book still in her hand. He could see dried blood, stained brown, painted beneath her nose. A purple bruise was beginning to form around her left eye. He wanted to touch it, to make it better.

Simon's breathing became laboured. His lungs were suddenly tight. He prayed to a God he did not entirely believe in she could not hear how stuttered his breaths were.

"This one's not your favourite? It's been read far more than any of the others," she observed.

"It's a children's book," he reasoned.

The girl clicked her tongue. "So?"

"It's not my favourite."

"It can be, you know. Nobody's going to make fun of you," she said. She touched his arm with her free hand. Her fingertips burned his flesh. "I'm not going to make fun of you."

Simon decided to change the subject. "How does your nose feel?" he asked, observing her a little more closely. "Your eye?"

"I'm okay," she said, though she flinched at the mention of her wounds. "It was just a shock is all. I've never been hit before."

She looked up at him, eyes boring into his, and lifted one side of her mouth. Before he could stop himself, Simon lifted his hand and glazed his thumb over her top lip, moving up towards her eye.

"I'm sorry he did this to you," he said solemnly.

"Not your fault. Besides, you stopped him from doing it again."

They stayed like that for a while—her holding his bicep, him swiping his thumb over and over her bruise.

The moon was still out. His mother and stepfather and sister were all asleep. And he was in his room with a girl whose beautiful face had been marred by a monster.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly.

Simon's thumb stopped. "Why do you want to know?"

"I'm standing in your bedroom. You stopped a wanker from hitting me. I feel like it's about time we shared names. I'm Alisha," she said.

"Simon," he replied warily.

"Simon," she said, and his name, he felt, had never sounded so nice. So strong. "You're being very nice to me. Why are you being so nice?"

"You were in trouble."

"Most guys would've left me there. Maybe would have cheered that other bloke on. But you stopped him. You brought me home." She was whispering now. Her hand had steadily travelled up his arm to his neck. Her fingertips scratched his scalp.

Simon had never before been so close to a girl. His mind didn't know how to process the situation. He felt lost and found all at the same time. Cold and hot.

"I was just trying to help. You needed help."

Alisha smiled. The dried blood on her upper lip cracked. "And you helped me," she said.

She grew taller, tilting her head upwards. Simon held his breath, unsure of what to do. Gently, Alisha's lips brushed his. It felt like snow, but hotter. Like melted snowflakes peppering his bottom lip.

Unsure of what to do with his hands—this had never happened before, he was lost—Simon placed them firmly on her hips as her fingertips continued to dance over his neck and hair.

He kissed her back, his eyes sliding shut. He still would not breathe, and he was starting to see stars blink across his eyelids.

"We shouldn't," he said, breaking away. He breathed in deep. "You're hurt."

Alisha—she smiled. "I'm fine. Kiss me."

Simon, the good part of him, wanted to find the right words that would convince her that they shouldn't be doing this. But the bad part, the part that was pulsing, told that other part of him to be quiet.

They found each other again. Alisha guided Simon back towards his twin-sized bed and climbed on top of him, fingers unclasping each of the buttons on his shirt until she was tugging it over his shoulders. Next went her top, then her bra, and he was suddenly staring at a half-naked girl.

"You can touch me," she breathed, taking ahold of his hands and placing them directly over her breasts.

She was so much smoother and so much warmer than he had anticipated. He squeezed experimentally, watching her mouth open.

Soon, they were kissing again. The air grew humid around them, blanketing them in a searing heat. They moved together, like those dancers he had witnessed at the club.

He was not afraid of his inexperience. Alisha took control of him, was kind to him in a way that made him feel like the champion of the world. She stole a piece of him. Tucked it away inside of her. Just the same, he took a piece of her, swearing in his own mind he would never let it go.

* * *

"Simon, you'll be late for community service!"

Startling, Simon shot up in bed. He was naked, covered in sweat. His mother was banging on the door.

"Coming," he said stagnantly, looking over to the other side of his bed.

She was gone.

* * *

Inside the locker room of the community centre, Simon dressed in his orange jumpsuit. It smelled of old sweat and rotting food, but he could live with it for just this little while. There were already four other people dressing in the same jumpsuits, a girl and three boys.

"Right," the probation worker Simon had met on his way in the building came into the locker room holding a clipboard. He scanned the names on a sheet of paper and observed the group of delinquents. "There should be one more of you."

As if on cue, footsteps could be heard down the hallway.

"Sorry, sorry." It was another girl. "I slept in."

Simon's eyes widened as the girl came inside the room. She stopped short, right next to the probation worker, when she caught sight of him, her hands in the middle of tying up her hair.

"You must be Alisha," the probation worker said, sounding unimpressed with her excuse. "Your locker is right over there." He pointed beside Simon. "Get changed and meet us out front. You lot, follow me."

Simon remained still as the other young offenders followed the probation worker out.

"You left," Simon said, surprised to hear his own voice.

He looked her over, wondering if she felt as brand new as he did. The bruise that had begun forming last night had now fully taken shape. It was purple and blue and puffed.

Alisha finished tying her hair and came over to him slowly. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

Right, that was a good question. "What are _you_ doing here?" he countered.

"I asked first," she said, smirking.

"Why did you leave?" he asked, not wanting to play a game so early in the morning with the girl who had stormed into his life and managed to change _everything_.

"I'm not entirely sure," she answered, staring at the ground. "I"—

"Oi, you two." The probation worker had returned. "Get out here now. There's a storm coming and I want you to start work before it hits."

Simon nodded. "Be right out, sir." Once the probation worker left, he couldn't resist the urge to touch Alisha's swollen eye. "Does it hurt now?"

"Not when you do that," she sighed, leaning against his hand.

He smiled, giddy. "I'll meet you outside," he said, removing his hand from her face.

"Sure," she said, nodding her head once. "Meet you outside."

Simon left the locker room, feeling undoubtedly normal. He wondered how long it would last.


End file.
